Stop me if I've told you
this one before, but when
my dad was a kid
his father took him
and his two siblings
to their lakefront property
in the Adirondacks every summer.
One year, in the late 1950s
or maybe it was in the early 1960s
when rope was more common
than ratchet straps
a strong gust of wind rose
and blew their rowboat off the roof
of the family station wagon
while crossing a bridge
on northbound Interstate 87
en route to the mountains.
It crashed down into the valley
below and they kept driving
hoping that no one had been injured.
It could have been one of two bridges
and one of two ravines
just south of Cairo, New York.
I'm not sure which ones
since I was only a kid
when my dad told me
as he took me to the Adirondacks
each summer that I choose to remember
before those water rights
were sold to the highest bidder
but it's not
and never will be
my story to tell.
Enough about that, though.
Thanks for not stopping me.
How was your Monday?
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